"

"Your Christian name?"

"I have none."

"What, have you no Christian name?"

The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily:
"I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning
me. I shan't answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to
make me cut my own throat, wouldn't you? A very clever trick, of course,
but one that won't do for me."

"You must see that you only aggravate your situation," observed the
governor.

"Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend
myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better
give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and
thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of
this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are
they?"

The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house,
who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody.
Lecoq now laid it upon the table.

"Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous," said he,
"and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars."

An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner's
features.

"Now," resumed the clerk, "will you answer?"

But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and
silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his
boots.

Lecoq thought the assassin's glance wavered as he heard this order. Was
it only a fancy?

"Why must I do that?" asked the culprit.

"To pass under the beam," replied the clerk. "We must make a note of
your exact height."

The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots.
The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover,
noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated
with mud.

"You only wear boots on Sundays, then?" remarked Lecoq.

"Why do you think that?"

"By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the
ankle-bone."

"What of that?" exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. "Is it a
crime not to have a marchioness's feet?"

"It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events," said the young
detective slowly. "Do you think I can't see that if the mud were picked
off your feet would be white and neat? The nails have been carefully cut
and polished--"

He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investigat